Distilled

Distilled 

At 23

I sat on a Ronda balcony

watching a crane toil through a Spanish day

with nothing but bad lager and a good friend. 

Propped up by a liquid sun, 

at 9 we talked politics

by 10, exhausted that and turned to girls.

By 12, still girls,

but we knew it all by 5 and

melted into the straps of fabric loungers,

sated with ours day’s work,

with our artistry of borrowed brush.

Time fell apart that day,

in tiny glops,

wet bread 

in fingernails

and after 

so did certainty.

So at 42 I have no answers

and some times, at some 2ams

would give everything to be back; 

solid, torpid

against a liquid sun.